


these days

by cirque



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, POV Child, Raccoon City, T-Virus, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22684582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cirque/pseuds/cirque
Summary: Someone had stuck a flyer on the door: ‘Raccoon City welcomes careful shoppers’. There was a bloody handprint over the text.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16
Collections: Trick or Treat Exchange 2019





	these days

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Silex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silex/gifts).



> So this is a... whole thing. I don't know where it came from, but I knew I wanted to combine Silex's two prompts in Original Work and RE. So this was born. I'm labeling it 'Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse' because I'm thinking this is what happens if Umbrella doesn't nuke the city and the outbreak spirals out of control. There may be more to come.

There were zombies at the end of the street. He saw them, ambling like drunk people, tripping over their own ankles. He could smell them even now, from his hiding spot behind the truck; they stank of weeks old bread and blood and piss. There were five of them, each in varying stages of decay. They limped around the corner and out of eye-shot - he was safe, for now.

Colt stood up. It was almost nighttime; he had to get indoors before _they_ came. He looked left then right, as if he was looking for cars, and laughed at how stupid it was. There were no cars anymore, not since the zombies.

As far as he knew, they were all over the world. The news had stopped broadcasting shortly after the president died. The zombies had slowly grown in numbers until suddenly you couldn’t go anywhere without seeing one. They were _everywhere_. They had a sickness, Colt knew, and if they bit you or scratched you or somehow their blood got inside you, you would get the sickness too. It was a virus, red and angry like bloodshot eyes. It haunted him in his nightmares.

Colt had been alone ever since mom got bit. They had been raiding a vending machine at the hospital, which was a big mistake - the hospital was where the zombies tended to group together, feasting on the long-forgotten bodies of the dead. Colt had his hands inside the body of the vending machine and was about to work loose a Hershey bar when he heard mom’s scream. They got her on her neck and her arm, and she fell to the ground, blood still spurting from her open artery. The carotid artery, Colt remembered reading online. He stood and watched his mother die, and then she began to twitch anew, her skin going gray with the sickness. He wasn’t strong enough to break her skull, so he pulled out the knife and shoved it down her ear. She didn’t move after that.

So now he was alone, out in the dusk light. The sun was purple and orange - the sky looked like candy stripes. Colt reached into the smashed window of the truck and carefully extracted the gun without scratching his arm. It was like that old game Operation. He moved without breathing, and didn’t relax until he had the gun cradled in his arms. He didn’t know anything about guns, not really, but he knew that this one was probably too big for him to use, but he didn’t have any better options. The knife was tucked into his belt, but it was a gun he needed. That way he didn’t have to get close to those monsters. He only hoped it was loaded; he wasn’t sure how to check. It was heavy in his hands, cold and uncertain.

He was almost back at the apartment when he saw it. He had been staying on the second floor of a crumbly old building, what had once been a fancy hotel, living off scraps and dodging zombies by daylight. It reminded him of an old video game, blurry graphics, sketchy frame rendering. It wasn’t fun, not even a little. 

He walked up the driveway and was about to shove aside the door when he saw it through the broken door panel - a shiny grisly _thing_ perched on the open stairway that took up the main lobby. It oozed something foul-smelling and it was twice as tall as a normal man, a vaguely human-shaped collection of black goop. It had an extra arm looming out from the side of its neck. Its eye had been dragged out of shape as the infection took over its face; it winked at him now.

Colt raised the gun. He knew it was pointless; you couldn’t kill the mutated beings with only one shot out of a possibly-unloaded gun that was, technically, too big for you. But still, he aimed at the creature’s head.

Some of the mutated were more human than others, and Colt couldn’t decide which fate was worse. Before they’d all been eaten, the newsreaders had said it was a different type of virus, one that kept something of the person behind, trapped in a fleshy cage. They called them BOWs - Bio Organic Weapons. Someone had _made_ them, intentionally, and set them free on the world. Colt didn’t think they could put a name to his nightmares. He eyed the monster and tried to be brave.

The monster stood up at the sight of him - thirteen feet of squishy brown rot, coming off it in rolls, sticking to the floor at its feet. The rotted skin was peeled off its bulging muscles, revealing stringy flesh. Was that blood? It looked like blood. Colt swallowed, and felt sick. Of course it was blood; everything was either blood or shit these days.

“Don’t come any closer!” He warned. “Please!” His heart was thumping in his throat, his ears were ringing, he couldn’t think of anything but the faltering way the creature was slowly making its way towards him. Maybe he could outrun it? He backed out through the smashed window, keeping his eye on the mutated monstrosity.

The creature raised its arms like a toddler tripping towards its mother. “No,” it said, and Colt was surprised how it managed to actually form the word with its screwed up mouth. It was all teeth, too thick lips, a hole where its voice box used to be. It was more of a groan than a word, but Colt definitely heard it.

“No?” He said, thinking what an idiot he was, believing they could actually _talk_. How stupid. And yet: “Did you say ‘no’?”

The creature opened its sticky mouth and moaned. It raised its hand and pointed at the gun in his hand. “No.” There it was again, a definite formed sound. It was talking, truly talking.

Colt still held the gun high. “You can talk?”

It made a hissing sound through its greenish teeth that sounded like an affirmation. Colt let the gun drop to his side. He hadn’t had a conversation with another person since mom died, since _everyone_ died, and he wanted so badly to believe that this creature still held something of the person it used to be, even if it was buried deep inside. If he looked, he could see its brain bulging through the hole in its skull.

“Cool,” said Colt, who was only ten after all.

The creature cooed at him, a genuine sound of what Colt guessed was agreement.

“Are you still… human, under there?”

The creature nodded its head. Several globules of ick were shaken loose and fell with an audible splat onto the shiny hotel tiles. Colt groaned.

“That… uh… that sucks. Sorry about the gun. Are you going to hurt me?”

It shook its hanging jaw from left to right. More goop fell to the ground, pouring from its stretched out eye socket.

“Great,” said Colt. It had been too long since someone had looked at him with anything other than annoyance, or hunger. There weren’t that many survivors left, and those that were alive had gone mad with the panic; they were almost as horrible as the zombies. “I’m going upstairs.” He moved closer to the monster. He was still wary, still healthily afraid, but he wasn’t as on edge. He walked slowly and calmly, past the creature, getting a waft of decaying flesh as he edged around it. It sat back down on the stairs and trembled.

“Here,” it roared.

“You’re going to wait here?”

“Yyyyes.”

“Ok.” Colt shrugged and began to walk up the stairs. As he went, several zombies bumbled through the gap in the door. They stumbled over each other but made purposeful movements towards the stairs, towards Colt. They could smell him, he knew. They had a hunger for flesh, a biological drive to spread the virus. They were animals to it. He raised the gun, then hesitated and dropped it on the floor at his side. He needed something he could trust, and so he pulled the knife out of his belt, holding it up with shaking hands. He was only ten years old.

The first zombie got stuck at the bottom of the stairs. Its half-rotted leg got caught on the first step and it couldn’t go any further. Colt approached it and raised his knife. He aimed for the fleshy hollow of its throat, and managed to sever its spinal cord in a few gutsy thrusts. He turned towards the second monster to do the same, when the mutated creature raised its wet hand.

“No.” It said again, and then swung its overlarge arm towards the remaining zombie. It took off its head in one slick movement. Globules of pus and crap splattered onto the far wall, and Colt whooped. 

“Nice one!” 

The creature turned and punched a hole through the chest of the next zombie. Its ribcage shattered and when the creature pulled its hand out it was cupping what remained of its heart. Its blood was black and brown and it stank something rotten. Colt gagged. The zombie shuddered and groaned, then dropped down dead - again. Panic over, Colt sank down to his knees, halfway up the stairs. He considered the monster seriously. It made eye contact; the stretched socket seemed to go on forever, and Colt smiled at it. It did not - or could not - return the smile. 

“What’s your name?”

The creature’s mouth worked soundlessly. It appeared to be having difficulty forming the syllables. It was probably the hundred-some teeth, or the hole in its throat. “Grrrrr.” It managed, in one long moaning breath.

Colt laughed. “Greg?”

The monster shook its wet head, but Colt laughed even louder.

“Greg it is, until we can work out your real name. Hi Greg.”

He must have imagined it, but it looked like Greg’s eyebrows were raised. Greg growled again. Colt decided to take it as a positive. He edged closer to Greg, still a little wary. He felt stupid, but he was begining to feel… _at ease_ around him. So what if he was a monster - he needed all the friends he could get.

Greg was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs next morning. Colt was still shrugging his way into his jacket and wasn’t looking, and they almost collided if not for the stench of rot coming off of him. Colt looked up at his new friend. He towered above him, by five feet at least.

“Good morning,” he said companionably. He was in a good mood. There was something about Greg that made him feel safe, protected. As they walked down the street together, Colt found himself wishing that they’d happen upon some zombies - he wanted to see Greg beat them to a pulp. They must have made a silly picture, strolling along - the little boy and the giant mutant.

He thought suddenly of what would happen if they came across some other humans. They’d likely put Greg down, a shotgun to the brain would work well. Colt paled; he didn’t want anything to happen to Greg, but there was no way he could feasibly protect him. Greg was a monster; this was the zombie apocalypse - humans killed monsters. Monsters didn’t tend to be… _tame_.

“Greg,” he said, as they cut across someone’s lawn. The grass was going yellow. “Greg - what do I do if some people see us? They’ll think you’re hurting me. They’ll shoot you.”

Greg shrugged.

“I’ll try and explain.” Colt said. “If they give me the chance that is. I’ll tell them you’re good.”

Greg seemed satisfied with that. They settled into an easy silence. They were on the way to find food. Colt was running low on supplies - he hadn’t had chance to hit a grocery store in almost a week. They took the backstreets to Walmart, walking up under the great blue shadow of its sign. Someone had stuck a flyer on the door: ‘Raccoon City welcomes careful shoppers’. There was a bloody handprint over the text. 

The store was a mess. Everything was a mess these days, but it looked as though someone had taken a truck to the place. The aisles were barely distinguishable. Someone had set a fire down the candy aisle, and there was a zombie dead and rotting by the tinned goods. There was blood everywhere; blood and spent bullets, and always the stench of decay. 

Colt didn’t spare it a second glance; he’d been here enough times to not care. He grabbed a cart and wheeled it precariously around any zombie remains. He pushed off and stood on the cart, letting himself be wheeled down the aisle. He flung his head back and whooped. 

He grabbed a handful of Twinkies, and threw one to Greg, who was standing in the entrance looking lost. The Twinkie bounced off his bloody chest and dropped to the floor.

“C’mon!” Colt yelled. “There’s no one here. Help me gather stuff. Pick up anything that looks edible. We can carry much more with two of us.” He had struggled with transporting food before. He tended to just grab a few day’s worth of stuff at a time. He still needed to be able to get to the knife at a moment’s notice.

He was digging around on the shelves for cans of coke when he heard gunshots. He jerked upright and gasped. There was a woman standing in the entrance with a gun - a _magnum_ \- pointed at Greg. She sent off another bullet and just missed his head. Greg was lucky this woman had shit aim.

“Stop!” Colt yelled. The woman faltered.

“Get out the way kid.”

“No!” said Colt. “You don’t understand. He’s my friend! Don’t shoot, please.” Colt ran until he was standing between the woman and Greg. He threw up his hands. “He’s not like the others! _Please_.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Yes!”

The woman lowered her gun. Since Greg wasn’t mauling Colt or her, she seemed to be believing him. Greg just stood there, chest heaving. “What the -?”

“I know, it’s crazy. But it’s true. He’s good.” He said this with as much emphasis as he could manage. “I don’t know what it is about him, but he’s still a person under there.”

“They don’t _stay_ people.”

“Greg did.”

“Greg - what the fuck?” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Colt might have known an adult would struggle more with it. “You’ve given it a name?”

“Yeah. And he’s a ‘he’, not an ‘it’.”

“Oh, it has pronoun preferences does it?” She rolled her eyes, but she lowered the gun. She clicked the safety back on and shoved it through her belt. She was wearing combat pants and a grey hoodie, both of which were smeared with blood and something gorier besides. She took off her sunglasses and Colt could see that she was sporting a terrible black eye. “And you -” she said, “What’s your name?”

“Colt,” he said. Greg edged closer towards him. “You?”

“Kate.” She rounded on Greg. “Are you seriously telling me he’s still human under all that crap? He’s not… undead?”

“Seriously.” Colt patted Greg on the arm, but regretted it instantly. Something rotten stuck to his hand and he groaned. He wiped it on his jacket. “I don’t know what it is about him. But the mutated are like that because of a virus right? Well maybe Greg reacted differently to the virus? Not everyone reacts the same way.”

“Maybe.” Kate seemed to be considering Greg. She walked around him in a circle. “Amazing… You’re fully mutated, but you’re still alive under there. I have no idea how it works. But apparently it does work. Did you get infected by a bite or a scratch, or was it something else?”

Greg gave out a length moan. He was still working on the syllables.

“Ah. You don’t have a voice. Weird. Maybe the infection hasn’t fully reached your brain?” She moved closer to him, and raised her hand. “Can I touch you?”

Greg nodded.

Kate reached out and touched the pulsepoint on his neck. To her credit, she didn’t recoil, even when her fingers slipped beneath the exposed muscle there. She dug around for something. “I can’t feel a pulse. The virus must have mutated inside you, and this is the result.”

“He saved my life yesterday.” That was exaggerating somewhat; Colt probably would have been fine by himself. “And he kept watch on me all night. He didn’t move an inch.”

“It seems he’s taken to protecting you. Lucky boy. It could have easily gone the other way.”

“Nuh-uh. Greg would never hurt me.”

“Everyone will hurt you kid, haven’t you learned that already?”

Colt thought back to his mother, in the early days. She had tried to shield him. As the panic in the streets grew, it got more and more difficult but she did try, and Colt was grateful for that. She wanted him to stay a kid for as long as possible. When he’d killed his first zombie, she had cried, proper tears, a wailing kind of sobbing. She’d let him keep the knife; neither of them wanted to acknowledge how much he’d need it.

Colt noticed that Kate was holding her leg funny. He got in closer and saw there was a gash in her pant leg, and blood was pooling there.

Kate saw him looking. “Oh - don’t worry, I didn’t get bit or anything. I did it climbing up the shelves in 7-11. Scraped it on some broken cans. I probably have tetanus now.”

Colt didn’t know what tetanus was, but at least it wasn’t the T-Virus. “Come with us to my hotel. I have supplies there. We can get you cleaned up.”

Kate seemed to be wrestling with something deep inside. He wondered why she was so hesitant to go with them. She chewed her lip. “Okay. All right. But I don’t want to stay in one place too long.”

“It’s okay,” Colt said, “It’s safe. And Greg will keep an eye out, won’t you?”

Greg nodded enthusiastically. What had once been his hair was sticking to the side of his face. His tremulous jaw wobbled dangerously as he moved. He seemed happy, if a mutated being could be happy. Colt grinned, and together the three of them gathered up the forgotten food items and made their way back to safety.


End file.
